But more immediate was the threat of Kaygan the Swordsman and his seven killers, and worse than these the ever-present fear of Cataplas and his sorcery. None of which seemed to bother Mace as we walked. He was in high good humour.
‘All that armour-plate,’ he said, ‘breastplate, shoulder-guards, greaves, thigh-protectors, gauntlets, helm. Must have cost at least thirty gold pieces. And one arrow ends his miserable existence. By God, isn’t life wonderful?’
‘There is nothing wonderful about the taking of a life,’ put in Astiana, ‘though I grant that Lykos deserved death.’
‘It shouldn’t have been as quick,’ said Wulf. ‘I’d like to have had an evening in his company with some hot irons and a blazing fire.’
‘To achieve what?’ asked the sister stonily.
‘Achieve?’ responded Wulf. ‘Why, I would have enjoyed it.
’I can see no pleasure in such torture,’ muttered Piercollo. ‘He is dead, and that is an end to it.’
The clouds gathered and the sky darkened. We sheltered from the coming storm in an old log dwelling long deserted. The west wall had collapsed, the cabin was open to the elements, but there was enough of a roof left on the east and north walls to protect us from the rain and the gathering storm.
As we sat around the fire blazing in the stone-built hearth, I entertained the company with the tale of Arian and Llaw and the return of the Gabala Knights. But after this, following requests from Wulf and Mace, I performed once more Rabain’s battles with the Vampyre assassins.
The magick was as usual greeted by warm applause, save from Astiana who, as a sister of God, frowned upon the Talent.
‘Did Rabain’s son actually kill him?’ asked Mace suddenly, as the figures faded away. ‘In life, I mean.’
I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. All we know of Rabain comes from legend, word of mouth. In some tales it is his son who slays him. In others he journeyed across the Far Sea. In at least one he climbed into a chariot of fire and journeyed to join the gods.’
‘There are other legends of Rabain,’ said Astiana, ‘older, darker. In these, he has no son.’
This aroused my interest and I questioned her further. ‘When I was first a novice,’ she explained, ‘there was an old monk who gathered such stories, writing them in a great book. He said that the first tales of Rabain were of a demon summoned from Hell. Ra-he-borain — the Summoned One. The Vampyre Kings had destroyed the armies of Light and Horga the Sorceress, in desperation, called upon a Prince of Blood. He was a killer, damned to an eternity of torment, burning in lakes of fire. She drew him back and he slew Golgoleth. All the Vampyre armies fell to ash in that moment for, as the old tales have it, when the Lord of Vampyres dies his legions die with him.’
‘What happened to Rabain?’ asked Mace.
‘He was returned to the pit.’
‘That’s hardly fair,’ Wulf complained.
‘Life isn’t fair,’ said Mace, chuckling, ‘but I like the tale. At least his son doesn’t betray him in this one. Did he get a chance to enjoy a parade?’
‘He enjoyed Horga, I understand,’ said Astiana primly. ‘That was his price for doing what was right. She was the most beautiful woman in the world, and he demanded her body. It was that act which meant he would be returned to the pit. He knew this, but such was his desire that he suffered the fires of eternity to have her.’
‘Must have been some woman,’ said Mace, with a broad grin. ‘Though I can’t say as I would ever strike such a bargain. So, poor Rabain still sits in his lake of fire. I wonder if he thinks it was worth it?’
‘According to legend,’ Astiana continued, ‘Ra-he-borain merely waits to be called again, his pain as nothing compared with his memories of Horga.’
‘That is a tale invented by a woman,’ said Mace scornfully. ‘You all think too much of yourselves.’
‘And you think too little,’ she snapped.
‘You are wrong, sister. There are parts of a woman that I revere.’
The threatened row did not materialize, for at that moment the storm winds died down and we heard a terrible scream echo through the forest.
‘By God’s Holy Tears!’ whispered Wulf. ‘That chills the blood!’
Mace rose. ‘I think the Ringwearer has made contact with Kaygan and his men,’ he said.
‘We must help him,’ I cried, the scream still echoing in my head.
‘We can’t,’ Mace told me. ‘Not yet. There is a storm raging over the forest. What good could we do — blundering around in the dark and the wet?’
‘But it is one man against seven!’ I protested.
‘It’s better that way,’ muttered Wulf. ‘At least he knows that every man he sees is an enemy.’
‘But the scream… it could have been Gareth. They may already have him!’
‘That is unlikely,’ put in Mace. ‘They will be sheltering from the rain, just like us. This is no weather to be hunting a man.’
Thunder rolled across the sky, lightning following instantly, and the rain fell with great force. Wulf banked up the fire and we sat in silence for a while.
‘What will we do tomorrow?’ I asked at last.
‘You and the women will wait here,’ said Mace. ‘Wulf and I will find Gareth.’
‘And then?’
‘We’ll see. Take the first watch, Owen, and wake me in about four hours.’ Wrapping himself in his cloak Mace settled down, falling asleep almost instantly.
The fire was warm and comforting, making me sleepy, so I moved away from it to sit below the edge of the broken roof, the dripping water splashing my boots. The forest beyond was cold and uninviting, gleaming with dark light. Somewhere out there, beneath the wind-whipped trees, a man was fighting for his life… a man alone.
I shivered and pulled my cloak tight around my shoulders. Astiana moved alongside me. ‘Can you not sleep?’ I asked, keeping my voice low.
‘No. Who is this man you are trying to aid?’
‘His name is Gareth.’ I told her then of the skulls and of my dream, and I spoke of Cataplas and his yearning for knowledge. She listened intently.
‘I have not heard this legend of the skulls, but the oldest of the stories says that, upon his death, Golgoleth pledged to return. The bodies of the Vampyre Kings were burnt, but the skulls remained untouched by the flames. They were said to have been hurled into the sea, from a ship that sailed to the edge of the world.’
‘There are many stories of Rabain,’ I said, ‘but the heart of them remains constant. He fought the evil of the Kings, destroying them — he and Horga.’
‘I wonder what happened to her?’ said Astiana.
I shrugged. ‘She married a tanner and raised strong sons. She became an abbess, a sister of mercy. She walked into the forest and became an oak, tall and commanding. She transformed herself into a dove and flew across the Grey Sea. Perhaps she did all of these and more. But I expect she just got old and died like everyone else.’
Astiana took my hand, lifting it to peer at the moonstone ring. ‘Why did you agree to wear it?’ she asked softly.
‘I cannot say. But it was right that I did.’
‘You are not a warrior, Owen. How can you fight men like Kaygan?’
‘I will do the best I can, sister. I was not the greatest of my father’s sons, and my skill with weapons is poor. But still the blood of Aubertain is in my veins. And he is a man who would never step aside for evil. Nor will Owen Odell.’
‘You are very brave, Owen,’ she said, releasing my hand.
Direct compliments always make me feel uncomfortable and I changed the subject. ‘Why are you still with us, lady? You have no love for Mace, and you do not like violence.’